


In The Egg

by sarahenany



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Snotfang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 01:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14226246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahenany/pseuds/sarahenany
Summary: HTTYD2 missing scene.First, remember how Drago subdued Hookfang just by roaring?Second, remember those huge egg-shaped traps in HTTYD2?On Drago's ship, we saw Astrid rescue Meatlug from one and Eret rescue Stormfly from the other. I figured, have Snotlout rescue Hookfang from a third, and shoehorn in some implausible backstory and gratuitous angst.Part of the Snotfang-bonding kick I'm on.





	In The Egg

**Author's Note:**

> Drago's dragon-speak, the additional-dragon-naming convention, and the general feel of his character and the ship, are stolen quite shamelessly from Le'letha's _Stormfall._ The concept of blood-bonds, while widespread, is stolen here from Fizzlemcschnizzle's _Hookfang's Tale._ The Dragonese is a mixture of TamerLorika's and Siberian-chan's inventions, and the result of countless late-night conversations with Thursday26.

Snotlout clambers up the metal cogs leading to the belly of the dragon-trap cage. So much has happened in the last few hours that it’s all crowded into his head and he can’t think anymore. It’s taken all he has to put up his front and look strong and flirt and laugh.

He shifts from the cogs to the teeth that form its jaws, but the opening is too narrow for him to climb though right away – he needs more height. This one is deep, its outer walls high. Snotlout climbs steadily, his fingers curling over the cold metal – not freezing, thank the gods. The further up he gets, the darker it looks on the inside, as though it swallowed up all light and somehow extinguished it. Drago’s ship is like the man himself, all dark and grey and cold and iron. And despair.

He hoists himself over the teeth of the trap, hand over hand. “Freaking dragon hunters,” he mutters. Eret coming down on their side, now that was something he wouldn’t have expected. _Stormfly_ defending Eret. The former dragon hunter defending the dragons, taking down a bunch of guards single-handed. After seeing him in action, Snotlout’s kind of glad he’s on their side: he wouldn’t want to have to fight him. Now all they have to do is convert Drago—His throat closes at the memory of Hookfang shrinking before Drago’s roar.

He’s _never_ seen Hookfang like that. He’s seen him fought into submission before, sure. Shackled, caged, bound. It happens, and with the life they lead, it happens to them more than most. But Snotlout’s never seen Hookfang _submit_ before. It’s… gods, it seems like twenty lifetimes ago now… it’s what he wanted, well, _thought_ he wanted, when he was a dumb fifteen-year-old. He remembers his arrogant imaginings: the giant, fearsome Monstrous Nightmare submitting meekly to Snotlout’s natural superiority and dominance. Hookfang lowering his head, letting Snotlout tread on his snout. Telling him he’s his to do with as he will. Recognizing him as his master.

The very thought of it makes Snotlout sick. Gods. He was a _moron_ back then.

He never realized it before. Maybe he wanted to forget he was ever such a Gods-damned little prick. So he mostly buried the memory of his naïve desire to dominate a dragon. Until today. Until the sight of Drago humiliating Hookfang made Snotlout want to _cut off_ that foot before it ever so much as _touched_ his partner's face.

His hand grips at air: he’s reached the top. “ _Finally_ ,” he mutters. He slides across the serrated edge and looks down. It’s pitch-black: too dark to risk dropping. “This is yak dung,” he mutters as he fumbles for handholds and starts climbing down again, hand over hand, deeper into the blackness. If things were different, he might say something about _the-things-I-do-for-you-you-overgrown-lizard_ but there’s a been a layer of cold under his skin ever since he watched Hookfang bow his head, and he can’t find it in him to say it, even in jest.

Finally, his eyes get used to the dark enough that he can see where to land. Snotlout swings himself the few feet down to the wooden deck, landing with a deep knee-bend that’s exemplary, if he does say so himself. “Snotlout, Hookfang, oi oi oi,” he mutters out of habit. Then his throat closes again. “Hookfang?”

There’s no answer. The inside of this trap is cavernous, the corners shrouded in darkness. “Hookfang?” Snotlout calls softly into the gloaming. “Barf? Belch?” He chose this one for its size, thinking it was more likely to hold a Zippleback or a Nightmare than a smaller dragon… Snotlout looks around, holding his breath.

A deep, rippling susurration thrums through the curved interior. Inhale… exhale… He’d recognize that breathing anywhere. “Hooky?”

There’s no response. “ _Hookfang!_ ” Snotlout hisses.

The breathing hitches on a groaning, rusty-nail whine. Snotlout chills to hear that sound coming from Hookfang’s throat. He turns blindly towards the darkness where the sound is coming from, pacing forward, arms outstretched. “Hooky? Did he hurt you?” The thought makes his chest hot. _If they’ve touched him…_

Then he sees him.

In the slanted side-light that limns Hookfang’s outline, Snotlout can glimpse the dull gleam of chains, so thick he can hardly see the scales beneath. Hookfang’s lying on his side, mouth clamped shut with a dragon-proof muzzle. His tail is encircled with a heavy shackle, his wings pulled back and bound tightly to his body. Snotlout’s own shoulders ache to see it. But worse than that is the way Hookfang’s facing the curved metal wall, snout buried in the lowest corner where the dome meets the decking. He’s huddled into himself, barely breathing.

_He’s given up._

Snotlout knows it without knowing how—then pushes the thought violently away. “Hookfang!” he bursts out, and runs to him. He reaches out, intending to shake him into alertness, but hesitates. “You hurt anywhere, Hooky? Did he do anything to you?”

Hookfang’s teeth are clenched together by the muzzle, and he’s still lying with his back to Snotlout, but he tosses his head in the direction Snotlout came from. The great ribcage expands, then subsides in a sigh. “Go.”

“What?”

“Go.”

“What? Why?”

_“Go.”_

“Not on your life.” Snotlout blurts it without thinking, then circles around, trying to see Hookfang’s face. He can’t! It’s too blasted dark! “Are you _hurt,_ Hookfang?!”

Again the resigned rumble. “Go.”

Terror chills Snotlout’s gut. Hookfang wouldn’t give up this bad unless he was mortally wounded. “Where?” he whispers. “Where are you hurt? I’m here. I’ll take care of it.” He drops to his knees and reaches out with both hands, starting at Hookfang’s heart and then moving in widening circles all over Hookfang’s chest and stomach, dreading the stickiness of blood under his hand. But there’s only the familiar ridges and curves of his underbelly. Hookfang shakes Snotlout’s hand off and lets out a low rumble, a shadow of the growl he’d level at him if he was his normal self. “Does it hurt, Hooky?” Snotlout murmurs. “You don’t _look_ bruised…” Oh gods, did anyone… He remembers Krogan’s hunters lashing the Singetails with whips. “Wait…” Rising from his knees, Snotlout starts patting Hookfang gently all over: neck, back, sides, checking and rechecking vital areas, then everywhere. There’s no injury: no blood, no bruises, nothing. Yet Hookfang grunts in protest, like he’s in pain. Snotlout feels his scales heat under his hands, but he doesn’t appear to have the energy to flame.

“What did they _do_ to you?” Snotlout mutters. “Dragon-root?” He chills. “Poison?”

Hookfang shakes his head and whuffs in something like exasperation. It’s too dark to assess his color, but his scales feel normal, not dry or flaky. Snotlout runs his hands down Hookfang’s neck one last time, and kneels to him again. “Hookfang, you gotta tell me where it hurts. I can’t find anything.”

Hookfang jerks away from Snotlout’s urging. “Go.”

“Damn it all to Helheim, you stubborn…!” Snotlout fumbles out the lock-picks. Having a blacksmith for a leader does have its perks. He reaches out with both hands, feeling along Hookfang’s snout. His fingers find the hinge on the muzzle and he feels along it for the lock, finally locating the keyhole. But damned if Hookfang doesn’t twist his head away.

“What the Hel…? Don’t you _want_ this damn thing off?”

“Go.”

Snotlout stops and stares. He takes a breath and collects himself. Him getting impatient will just lead to a screaming match. “Look. I’m not leaving here without you…” He catches himself. Never issue an ultimatum to Hookfang. Or any Nightmare, really. “…unless you tell me why you’re not leaving. You can’t tell me why you’re not leaving unless the muzzle’s off. So let me get rid of that at least.”

The great ribcage expands and contracts in a put-upon sigh, the chains tightening around it in a way that makes Snotlout’s own chest ache. Then Hookfang grudgingly shifts his head _just_ into range so that Snotlout can reach the lock if he _really_ tries. Well, he’s not picking a freaking lock in that position, so he clambers over Hookfang’s head to give himself room to work. Then he sets to picking the lock. He should be glad that Hookfang allows it, but the odd lethargy in him is making Snotlout more nervous than anything else.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” he snaps as he works the mechanism the way Hiccup’s taught them. _Slow and easy,_ Hiccup said. Snotlout is feeling neither slow nor easy at the moment. In fact, he’s going to start swinging soon – fists or axe, he’s not picky – if someone doesn’t give him some answers. “Go, yeah _right,_ you think I’m gonna go and leave you in here, I think maybe you breathed fire so long you got smoke on the brain…”

The lock gives with a _click._ Sighing in relief, Snotlout yanks it open, ignoring the keening, ponderous creak of iron, lifts it off Hookfang’s face, and flings it aside with violent disgust. Hookfang turns his face away at once, depositing Snotlout on the deck.

“Okay, that does it.” Snotlout scrambles to his feet, then grabs Hookfang’s horns and twists, pinning him to the floor. Hookfang relaxes, and Snotlout uses the moment to pat all over his snout, extra careful where the damned muzzle was pressing into his jaw. Finally satisfied the barbaric device – and the hunters call the _Vikings_ barbarians! – hasn’t chafed or hurt his face or neck, Snotlout releases Hookfang’s head. He counts it as a good sign that he doesn’t immediately move away again, and takes a step back so he can look him in the eyes. “Now you gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to go sic that bastard Drago on you to get some answers?”

Hookfang _whimpers._

Snotlout looks hard into his face, but Hookfang turns away, whining softly. Snotlout’s heart twists. “Hey, c’mon. What’s wrong, Hooky?”

Hookfang presses his face into the floor and makes himself small. “Not bad-speak Hookfang-master.”

Snotlout’s mouth falls open. “…” He clears his throat and tries again. “…Drago?! I… I’m – heh. You had me going there. Thought you were calling that asshole ‘master’.”

This time Hookfang’s cry is almost one of pain. “Not-can listen! Insult Hookfang-master!”

For a long moment, Snotlout stands in shock. Finally, he musters the wherewithal to speak. “Y…” He clears his throat and tries again. “You’re _Hookfang!_ You don’t _have_ a master! You flamed me for even _thinking_ it!”

Hookfang’s eyes flicker to Snotlout, like maybe he’s going to say something, but then he curls into himself again. “Go.”

“We already decided I’m not going anywhere till I get some answers. Sooner you tell me what’s going on, sooner I’ll leave you to your…” The word sticks in Snotlout’s craw, thick and dry like a lump of earth. “… _Master.”_

Hookfang’s ribcage expands and contracts again. Eyes fully used to the dark now, Snotlout can see how the chains binding him are all secured by a single metal ring, held in place by a hefty padlock. The thing is sitting on the floor quite a distance from Hookfang. _All the better to work on while you’re distracted, my dear._ Snotlout paces round behind Hookfang, ostensibly to respect his privacy…

“Go,” Hookfang repeats. Stubborn, bull-headed, yak-for-brains… Snotlout takes in a deep breath through his nose. What on Midgard could possibly make Hookfang submit this way? He sinks down cross-legged next to the padlock, pulls out his pick and sticks it into the lock with a scraping sound.

Hookfang stills, ears standing straight up. “Leave chains,” he commands.

“What the _fuck…”_

_“Leave chains.”_

Snotlout lowers the pick, staring at Hookfang. _Submit, submit, submit,_ rolls through his head like a mantra. Hookfang’s eyes widening, then his head lowering… ‘Master.’ Snotlout gathers his wits about him. “Hey, Hooky. Let’s just… like, calm down a minute. It sounds like this is hard for you. You don’t gotta tell me everything right away. Just… Can you start with telling me what he said to you? Up there? What he said to make you…” _Don’t say submit, don’t say submit._ “Uh, to make you, you looked real surprised. What was all that about?”

Another heave of Hookfang’s ribcage. Snotlout is starting to feel short of breath himself with the way the chains are restricting his partner’s breathing. He clenches his teeth, pushes down the feeling, and waits Hookfang out. “Was he,” Snotlout thinks maybe Hookfang could use a little more prompting, “saying something in Dragonese that I don’t understand?”

Haltingly, Hookfang inclines his head. “Say ‘Me master, me Alpha,’” he quotes in a low rumble. “‘You nothing. You submit.’” Snotlout can’t see his face, but he can hear the tightness in his voice.

Snotlout opens his mouth and closes it again. “I’m still not getting it. I’ve said that kind of crud to you a hundred times, and you’ve flamed me for it! Like you _should!_ What makes _him_ saying it so special?”

“Before.”

Snotlout blinks, hand stilling where he’s tucking the pick back into his belt. “Something happened before? Or… Or do you mean you’ve heard that stuff before?”

“Yes.”

Snotlout decides not to get into what Hookfang’s saying ‘yes’ to, opting to get to the point. “Who’d dare to challenge you on Berk?”

“Not Berk. Before.”

“Before? Before you… uh, came to Berk, huh.” Snotlout doesn’t quite make it a question.

Hookfang takes a deep breath. “Long before.” The words seem wrenched out of him.

“Huh.” Snotlout nods, taking it in. “Is it a dragon thing? Like a challenge?”

Hookfang hesitates, then nods. “Now go.”

“What? Hold on just a minute! I’m still going on nothing here! So what if someone issued a challenge years ago or something? This was what, before you came to Berk?” Hookfang’s head shifts grudgingly in what _might_ be a nod. “Before—Oh, was it the Queen? The Red Death? Was _he_ the one who challenged you?”

Hookfang curls up smaller still. “Fire-Giant used Alpha-Voice to call. Not-need challenge.”

Snotlout growls in frustration. “Then _who?!”_

“…Master.”

Snotlout is starting to get punch-drunk from all the shocks of this day, and it isn’t over yet. “You… and _Drago,”_ he says hesitantly, trying to understand, “have a… a _history?”_ He tilts his head, as though seeing Hookfang for the first time. “Drago _Bludvist?”_

Hookfang is silent for so long that Snotlout wonders if he’s fallen asleep. Finally, just as Snotlout is considering getting up and checking on him, Hookfang tilts his head to the side and whispers, small and vulnerable, “Hold Hookfang down?”

Snotlout’s on his feet in an instant, reaching for Hookfang’s horns and pinning his head to the deck. An outside observer might be forgiven for thinking it’s cruel, but it’s actually used by Nightmare parents to calm hatchlings, and Hookfang’s told him he finds it reassuring. “I gotcha, Fangster.” He uses one knee to pin Hookfang’s lower horn, freeing up a hand to caress his eye-bulbs. “I’m here. I got you.” Gods, his partner is sounding so lonely. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here.”

He feels Hookfang drag in a shuddering breath. No smoke issues from his nostrils, which worries Snotlout even more. _Only a seriously weakened or profoundly unhappy Nightmare loses the instinct to blow smoke when agitated,_ Fishlegs’ geeky voice in his head supplies.

They stay like that for a long time. Snotlout can tell Hookfang is going to speak if he just waits long enough, and he’s prepared to wait. They may die in the next moment, but some things can’t be rushed. He strokes and scratches at Hookfang’s face and holds him down firm and safe.

“Dragon custom…” Hookfang begins haltingly. Snotlout waits. “Dam-master, sire-master, also hatchling-master.”

“Uh…” Snotlout keeps up his firm hold on Hookfang. “That means if someone conquers your parents, they conquer you, too? Like a debt thing?”

Hookfang nods, wordless.

“Okay,” Snotlout says, more to himself than Hookfang. “Okay, I get that. But what’s that got to do with…” And then his chest seems to drop into his stomach.

“You…” For a moment, he can’t speak. “You, uh… Drago—no. Drago – Drago and your… uh, your parents? You, uh…? Uh, before?” Damn, he’s forgotten how to use words.

But Hookfang understands. Snotlout can tell before he speaks from the shudder that ripples through his frame. The horns he’s holding shift slightly in what Snotlout can tell is a nod. Then Hookfang shudders again.

“Shh. Shh. I got you.” Snotlout tightens his grip on Hookfang’s horns, holding him as firmly as he can. “I’m here. I’ve got you, okay? I’m not letting go.” Holding Hookfang down is good. It helps clear the fog from Snotlout’s brain, the sheer shock at what he’s just discovered. “Stoick said…” Snotlout says out loud, to fill the silence and calm Hook—Oh Hel, to calm _himself—_ “he said Drago had already formed a dragon army when we were kids – maybe even before we were born.” He takes a breath, thinking. “So yeah, I guess… Yeah… The timing… I just never thought…” Snotlout shakes his head. Why wouldn’t he? Hookfang is a dragon and Drago is a dragon hunter. They both lived and hunted in and around the Archipelago. Why _wouldn’t_ he have had interactions with Hookfang’s parents? He’s enslaved lots of dragons. It was just… “I didn’t think… Not _you.”_ Snotlout swallows. “You’re too good for that,” he finishes lamely.

The horns under Snotlout’s hand shift in a way that indicates Hookfang wants to be released. Snotlout lets go and steps back. “Not-good,” Hookfang whines, eyes closing. “Slave.”

Snotlout freezes. He throws himself onto his knees, flinging his arms round Hookfang’s snout. “Don’t say that!” he bursts out. “Don’t _ever_ say that! You’re _Hookfang!_ You’re a _warrior!_ You’re _nobody’s_ slave! You—”

Hookfang butts him away. Snotlout is flung sideways, and he tucks and rolls along the curved metal wall. He gets to his hands and knees, facing the curled-up form of Hookfang, who’s buried his face into his stomach. If his wings weren’t chained up, he’d probably have tucked his head under his wing completely.

“Ornery bastard,” Snotlout says without heat. “What happened?” He tries to keep his voice light. “With… with your parents?”

Snotlout stays quite still, like Hookfang is a wild dragon, not his partner of many years. Like Hookfang isn’t chained, like he might bolt. “Master same-speak to sire. To dam.”

“Okay.” Snotlout’s words are barely a breath.

“Sire hated humans. Tried to attack. But Master…”

Snotlout is really, _really_ hating that moniker applied to Drago, and from _Hookfang’s_ mouth. But he chokes his feelings down. “I’m listening,” he says softly, like Fishface does when he’s trying to lull someone into spilling their guts. Gods, if Fishlegs were here, he’d be so much better at this. Except Hookfang wouldn’t listen to him. Too bad. Snotlout’s all he’s got. “What did he do?”

Hookfang whines, the sound too small for such a giant dragon. “Master same-speak to sire. To dam. ‘Me Alpha, you nothing.’ Both submit. Call Master.”

“Your parents? They heard that call?” It was more of a roar, really, but Snotlout’s not going to split hairs. “And, uh… they gave in to him?”

Hookfang inclines his head, throat giving vent to a thin sound of pain. “Sire said, die before call _any_ human master. But… In the end,” he uses the human phrase, “sire called him Master. Submitted.”

Hookfang shrinks into himself, impossibly smaller: Snotlout aches to hold him, but fears that any motion, however slight, may halt the flow of words. “What about you?” Snotlout breathes.

“Sire-master, dam-master, also hatchling-master. H—hatchlings also submit, but…”

“But what, Fangster?”

“D—Dra… Master… not-see hatchlings. Hidden.”

“Your parents protected you,” Snotlout can’t seem to raise his voice above a whisper. “Hid you.”

A nod. “Took sire and dam away.” Hookfang’s voice is rough, too rough to be entirely a growl. “Never saw again.”

Damn discretion to Helheim anyway. Snotlout darts to Hookfang’s side and wraps his arms round his friend’s neck, pressing his cheek to his turned-away snout. Hookfang allows it. “Oh _Hookfang._ I’m so sorry. I’m so _sorry!”_

“Not Snotlout-fault,” Hookfang rumbles.

“No, I… I…” He holds Hookfang tight, and for a moment all he can see is a little dragonet, hiding, scared, watching its parents be taken away. “How young were you?” he whispers, scratching under Hookfang’s chin to soothe him. He feels some of the tension drain away from the massive body, so he keeps up the scratching, never letting go.

Hookfang’s head tilts on his long neck. “Not-sure… Tiny-Wing still.”

Snotlout racks his brain for Fishlegs’ knowledge. Nightmares remain Tiny-Wings till they’re five or six years of age… “Oh, _Hookfang._ Oh, Hooky…”

But then Hookfang squirms out of Snotlout’s hold. “Hookfang not-deserve comfort.”

“What?” Snotlout takes a step back, not for fear of being flamed but out of shock. He can still hear Drago’s primal roar, still see how Hookfang’s eyes widened. How he lowered his head in submission. Snotlout’s stomach turns. “How can you say that? _Why?”_

Hookfang just curls tighter into himself. “Last time Hookfang saw sire, sire called a human master. Hookfang fail-protect sire.”

Snotlout bites back the urge to call Hookfang a stupid idiot. It probably wouldn’t help. “You were just a baby! And so were your clutchmates!” he protests instead. “Who…” His voice softens. “Who raised you? After… well, you know?” He wants to move closer, but holds back. “Were you raised by the other adults in your nest?”

“No nest.” Snotlout can hear Hookfang quite clearly, even though the dragon’s facing away from him and some phrases in Dragonese require you to see the speaker. “Hookfang tried…” He falters. “Tried to protect…”

“Hookfang, that’s—You protected your brothers and sisters?”

“Hookfang fail!” The dragon’s wounded cry is amplified by the echo of the curved metal. “First Plays With Birds, gone while Hookfang hunting. Then Sleepy One, bird of prey. Saw flying up, but Hookfang’s wings too weak to follow. Always Eating and Happy Face… attack from a Cavern Crasher. Hookfang tried… _tried…_ but…”

Snotlout darts forward and damn the consequences. He wraps his arms round Hookfang’s neck. “You were just a baby, there was nothing you could have—”

He’s tossed away again, but he kind of expected it so he tucks into a smooth roll. “Failed!” Hookfang snarls. “First sire and dam. Then clutchmates. Then force-will by Old-Alpha. Then… then captured.”

“Captured?! Who captured you?”

Hookfang’s tone is soft, bitter. “On—On Berk. Failed again. Failed always.”

“Hookfang…”

Hookfang buries his head back into his stomach. “Drago Hookfang-master now. Now Snotlout know. Go.”

“Hookfang…”

Snotlout reaches out for him, but Hookfang head-butts his reaching hand, turning away again at once. “Go.”

“Hooky… You don’t have to stay with someone who did that to you.”

He can’t see his friend’s face, but there’s no mistaking the pain in his sigh. “Hookfang must. Knew when… when heard Master-cry.” He shudders. “Master not-know. But… but Hookfang know.”

“Knew _what,_ Hookfang?”

“Knew… owner.”

“What do you mean, owner? You can’t own a dragon! Next you’re gonna tell me thralldom is okay for humans!”

“No… Snotlout must understand. Like Alpha-claim. Master claim Hookfang before. No before-claim. Now Hookfang not-have clutch. Not-have Alpha. Master keep Hookfang.” He draws a rumbling breath. “Hookfang must submit. Custom.” He shudders. "Think maybe... maybe Master saw. In Hookfang-face."

“What?” Snotlout can’t believe what he’s hearing. “If you don’t have a family or an Alpha… the bastard who claimed your parents gets to _keep you?”_

“No bad-speak Master.”

Snotlout’s fists clench. “Over my dead body!”

“That-why Snotlout must go.”

“You’re afraid he’ll kill me?”

“Not _afraid,”_ Hookfang rumbles, and Snotlout could cheer at his orneriness showing through. “Hookfang property.” Okay, now he does _not_ want to cheer. “Hookfang fail. Better be property now. Lived long free, but…”

“Hookfang…”

“Hookfang was always property. Now returned to Master.” His face closes. “Go.”

“Okay. Okay.” Snotlout paces backward, thinking to himself. Fishface would probably sit here and try to convince Hookfang, but they’re running out of time, and Snotlout was never good with words, anyway. He has a crazy idea. Hiccup must be rubbing off on him. When did he become the sane one in this loony project, anyway?

Safely hidden behind Hookfang’s back and downwind from him – well, whatever passes fpr downwind in this egg-shaped cage – Snotlout slips his dagger from his belt. Camouflaging his movements with a rattle of the padlock, which earns him a warning growl from Hookfang, he scores a shallow cut over the lower side of his left pectoral, between chest and stomach. Hookfang is too out of it to notice, thank Thor. Snotlout’s had worse shaving, but he needs Hookfang to smell his blood for this to work. He slopes round to Hookfang’s front, dragging his feet. “Guess I’ll stay too,” he mutters, and slumps to the deck.

Hookfang’s head jerks up. “Snotlout hurt?”

“It’s nothing,” Snotlout says quite truthfully. “Just… Drago…” he goes on vaguely. “And when you threw me down…” He unobtrusively waves the hand smeared with his blood near Hookfang’s snout.

Hookfang’s nostrils flare. There’s a scraping clatter as he scrambles to his feet. He bursts into a brief flame. Shaking his body to douse it, he roars, “Drago _hurt Snotlout?!”_

“He’s your master,” Snotlout mutters, careful to look down at the floor. “He can do whatever he wants.”

There’s a dragon shriek that feels like it’s going to blow the sides off the trap. “Hookfang not-have master!” He noses Snotlout’s tunic up, lifting it with a fang and triaging with his tongue. “Hookfang have…” He breaks off, nosing and sniffing, great nostrils flaring. “Hookfang have…”

He lets out a cry when he finds the wound. Snotlout’s heart lurches as Hookfang tongues the blood from it with astonishing gentleness. He sniffs until he’s satisfied it’s not serious, licking till the sting is soothed. Then the dragon does something odd: he brings his tail around, takes it in his teeth, and scratches a furrow in one of his tail-frills. It’s barely deep enough to draw blood, but a tiny bead of crimson wells from the scratch. “You,” Hookfang growls, holding it up close to Snotlout’s lips. His meaning is clear.

Snotlout opens his mouth to question, figures Hookfang must have his reasons, and licks the drop of blood off his tail. It’s overwhelmingly metallic and bitter, feeling like it’s burning a hole in his tongue. With a muted shudder, he swallows, rolling his tongue around in his mouth against the burn.

Hookfang nods in satisfaction. “Now, brother. No master. Not ever. Yours.”

Snotlout feels tears spring to his eyes. “What?”

“Dragon not-can have master… if already belong. Blood-bond… Drago not-can own Hookfang. Hookfang already belong,” the rumbling voice is unsteady, “to Snotlout.”

“We’re… already, uh…” It’s funny how Snotlout still feels the hesitation of long years blocking the word. “…partners.”

Hookfang shakes his head. “Blood-bond different. Only death break. Unless…” For the first time, Hookfang looks unsure. “Unless Snotlout not-want?”

Snotlout flings himself at Hookfang. Here in the darkened dome of the dragon trap, with no-one to see, he wraps his arms around Hookfang’s head, pressing his cheek to his eye-bulbs and scratching his chin. “I want! I want! Hooky…” His voice hitches. “I just… I’m not…” Hookfang whines and shrinks back, away from Snotlout’s embrace. “No!” Snotlout blurts, moving with him and tightening his hold. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I meant I’m not good enough!”

Hookfang stills. He seems to stop breathing for a moment. Snotlout searches for words to fill the silence, laughing nervously. “A dragon like you should have someone like Stoick! Or, I don’t know, Dagur or… Or Thor Bonecrusher…”

Hookfang tilts his head. “Snotlout want Skullcrusher?”

“What? No, of course not, what—”

“Sleuther?”

“No, don’t—”

“Meatlug?”

“Hooky, are you trying to get rid of me or something?”

“Not-know. Why Snotlout try get-rid of Hookfang?”

“Oh, Hooky!” Snotlout bursts out laughing and clings to Hookfang. “You’re never getting rid of me, never! You’re mine!” Grinning like a loon, he scratches every inch of his friend—his brother—he can reach, rubbing his cheek all over Hookfang’s face and even smooching his snout.

“No need get-disgusting,” Hookfang rumbles, but he’s nuzzling and purring and leaning into the touch, tongue darting out to lick Snotlout’s face and tenderly lave his wound. “Get chains off?”

“You bet!” Snotlout darts to the Gods-damned padlock, more than ready to finally release Hookfang. “And if Drago wants you, he’s gonna have to go through me.”

Hookfang narrows his eyes. “Big strong Viking?”

"Shut up." Snotlout doesn't look up from picking the lock. “Mouthy dragon.”

“Hookfang eat Snotlout if much-talk,” Hookfang retorts. His tail curves round to bat Snotlout’s temple as he works to unlock his chains.

“Yeah, yeah.” In the echoing dome of the trap, Snotlout can hear Hookfang purring.

The padlock comes undone. The chains fall with a resounding _clang_. Snotlout darts to Hookfang, yanking the chains off his wings and rubbing his friend’s strained shoulders, gasping with the relief it brings him. “There ya go! That’s it! Let’s blow this joint!”

Hookfang rears up, roars, and bursts into flame. Snotlout yells. “Hookfang, Hookfang, oi oi oi! Welcome back, ya ornery bastard! Hey—” It’s been years since Hookfang’s chomped Snotlout, but for old times’ sake, he grabs Snotlout in his great jaws and flings him back into the saddle, careful to put himself out first. “YEAH!” Snotlout didn’t think he could feel any more triumphant, but he pumps his fists and yells his triumph to the dome—

Dome. Wait a minute. “Hey, Hookfang. This thing looks like an egg, you notice?”

Hookfang looks around, as though noticing for the first time. “Big egg. But yes.”

Snotlout’s cheeks are beginning to ache from grinning as he leans forward to hold Hookfang’s eye-bulbs, hugging tight and shameless. “Big enough to hold two brothers?”

Hookfang flickers in excitement, almost flaming. He puts it out at the last moment. Then he tilts his head up at Snotlout, grinning just as wide as him. “Yes.” Then he looks up at the serrated teeth of the opening and the sky beyond. “Time to hatch?”

“Ready when you are.”

Hookfang lets out a joyous scream. Snotlout echoes it, and they surge upwards, bellowing at the tops of their lungs.


End file.
